The Tudors: Law and Disorder
by fykylie
Summary: The charismatic, sexually magnetic President of the United States, Henry Tudor is accustomed to having what he wants. Thus, when his frustrated desires for a son to inherit his law firm and, above all, the ever-fiery Anne Boleyn collide, his conservative court is turned upside-down and not even the woman he loves is safe from the fickle will of a man as dangerous as he is powerful.


**A/N**: I will probably end up reading this through and being disgusted with my writing, but I don't plan to actually spend much time doing hard editing; it's really just for fun. I miss writing about Anne, and as overdone as modern AUs are, I thought it would be fun.

* * *

**CHAPTER 1**

"It's just a social rule," George said, with all the familiar candor of a big brother, "a high society social rule, that is. Men in positions of power will be away from their wives a lot, they'll have mistresses. So? Their wives get to stay home and spend all of their money, isn't that a fair trade?"

His sister fixed him with a tart smile and then took a thick sip from her cup of black coffee; it was early, too early. The states were such a dull place to her after she had lived a while in France upon early graduation from USC; even her brother seemed simple to her. She adored him, missed him, yes, but she had not even wanted to meet with him for a 7AM Starbucks run; she had wanted to stay home, to _go_ home – to her little apartment in Paris, that was, not the bleak Washington DC condo she now shared with her sister.

"Anne, say something," he said, at last. "It's just how it is; I wasn't trying to be rude."

She only laughed. "But it's the way I like you, George," she said, offering him the intimate sideways smile so characteristic of her, "rude. Wretchedly honest. But is that how all men think? Are we – our family, I mean – _high society_?" Anne had been away, awhile, that much she knew; while she had been in France writing teleplays for a low-budget costume drama, her father had become a senator, George had become 'golfing buddies' with the president, and her older sister, Mary… well, Mary had staked her own place in the commander-and-chief's good graces.

"To answer your second question… we're getting there." His smile was as confident as it was secretive; for a single, chilling moment, he reminded Anne of their father. "To answer your first… it certainly is the way _Henry Tudor_ thinks, and he's quite powerful, isn't he? He owns the biggest law firm in the country, he's almost done with a great first term as the president of our fair, fair nation and his prospects are looking good for a second –"

"They wouldn't," Anne cut him off sharply, "if everyone knew he was fucking our sister."

"And _who_ exactly is going to tell?"

"I think someone should; it's disgusting," Anne said. "I would, if she wasn't my sister, if I could suffer watching the tabloids label her a whore, if you and Dad wouldn't murder me." She sucked in a breath. "It's just like when she lived in France with me, that summer she was modeling overseas. I told her not to sleep with Francis, and there was that scandal and she –"

"– got sent home and then picked up by the president? How is that a bad thing, Anne?"

Francis had owned a large law firm in France, and he had met the Boleyn sisters while representing the show Anne wrote for and stopping by at the set, by chance, on the one day Mary didn't have a shoot and had come by to visit as well. They were back at her hotel room that same night, and in the months to follow he lavished her with gifts that totaled in cost beyond all of Anne's college tuition. His wife caught on quickly enough and had Mary fired from the agency she modeled for, but Francis sent her home with a helpful recommendation letter to his good friend Henry and she was hired as a secretary to the president within days of her return to the US.

"You don't always end up so lucky," Anne said softly. She smiled; the smile was wan, regretful. "Do you honestly believe there's no danger in an affair with a man who's married… or even… engaged?" The last word stung; she took another sip of coffee and tried to repress the memory of another Henry she had known.

"Anne." George took her hand and chafed it in both of his. "It was a mistake; you didn't know that he was engaged."

"I did know," she said, "I was just stupid enough to think he would leave her for me. What girl is realistic at twenty-one, though? And realizes that a rich politician would never stoop to marry a broke writer who spends every cent she makes on coffee?"

"It's different now. You're the daughter of a senator." He smiled at her, one of his rare genuine smiles. "And you're beautiful."

"George," she said softly. She touched his cheek and, and she smiled into his eyes, warm and dark and sweet as they always were when she was in need of comfort.

"What? Everyone says you look like me, after all."

Anne had the grace to laugh. "What does it matter that our fortunes are high? Nothing, no titles or achievements, means anything anymore; everything is just a reward from Henry for Mary's 'good behavior'." She frowned, and looked to the window; there were cars in the streets now, there was more blue in the sky. But it was a Sunday morning, there was no rush. "Besides, nothing could give me the one thing I want back."

"Percy?" George guessed, softly. "Henry Percy?"

"I could care less about him," she lied swiftly. "I gave him my virginity; he married that rich girl two days later. I texted him; a month later he replied 'sorry'. That's what I want back – my virginity."

"Anne, what does virginity even matter, now?" he said lightly. "It's not the 1500s."

"No?" she smiled at him. "I know it shouldn't matter; I only wish that I lived in a society that didn't make women feel like sluts for 'giving it up'." She laughed, but the laugh came out stiff. "And then making them feel worse for complaining about it."

"Since when did you become a feminist?" George said, with a bored yawn.

Anne began to respond, but her phone buzzed and she pulled it out from the pocket of her jeans.

"Who's texting you?" George asked at once.

"Just Wyatt." She shrugged, but she knew her brother was hardly likely to let it slip by.

"Thomas Wyatt? Henry's old golfing buddy? How'd you meet him?"

"The party Dad threw for Henry a few days ago. It's nothing; he's _married_."

"So?" He smiled. "See, men want you, too. You could get as much dick as Mary if you wanted to."

Anne rolled her eyes. "It's _nothing_," she repeated, vehemently.

"If you say so. What does he want?"

"Just drinks –"

Her phone buzzed again. _Mary_. "Shit, I forgot. I'm supposed to help Mary get dressed for her brunch date with Henry. I swear, how do those two not get caught? They're always at it, you'd think Katherine –"

"Henry doesn't need to hide affairs from his wife, she knows they're happening, she looks the other way; she's not stupid."

"But why –"

George frowned. "Anne, tell me what Katherine is."

"The First Lady…"

"Yes, and would she be if Henry wasn't voted another term should he be caught cheating?"

"No –"

"There you have it. And when you have money – a lot of it – and a whole network of men who want it, you could hide anything from the people." He smiled and helped her up from her seat and kissed her shortly on the cheek. "I'm glad you're home. Now go help our sister."

* * *

"Hever Literary Agency," Anne said into the phone. It was a quiet Friday. She had not received many calls, but throughout the course of the morning and afternoon she had responded to a record of nearly fifteen submissions, most of which she and the board rejected; they were all clichés – kings falling in love with the wrong woman, _Game of Thrones_ ripped fantasies and awkward erotica… at any rate it was nearly six and she ached for home and a cup of coffee.

"Anne?"

"Dad?"

"You didn't reply to text," he said simply. "I faxed you something. Did you get it?"

She looked to the machine at the corner of her desk. "Yes. What is it?"

"Anne, I… er… asked Mary to take some papers to Henry when she visited him earlier at his private house. I have the address and gate pass code written on the papers, I think," he said, stiffly. "Would you mind dropping them off? Or are you still… at _work_?"

The disdain in his pronunciation of the word 'work' was telling of what her father made of her career, but she let it slide – as she always did. "I was about to take off, but –"

"Perfect." He paused. "What are you wearing?"

"Why?" It was called 'casual Friday' for a reason – she had seen little purpose in fancy clothes. Simple was always sexier, anyway, she had decided, but it was hardly as if she worked with anyone worth dressing up for, anyway. Light eyeliner and a simple v-neck, black pencil skirt and nude flats had seemed appropriate that morning.

"I… this is the president, Anne. Just… make sure you look… presentable." He paused. "Can you do that?"

"Why can't Mary just –"

"Thanks. Bye." He hung up the phone.

* * *

Her car was the old black BMW her brother had tired of, and she had thought it a lavish gift until her father's guests arrived at their estate for his dinner party and every vehicle along their driveway was some foreign luxury sports car. She had never seen Henry, in person, before that evening. He had towered every man in the room, and he had been magnetic, simply magnetic with his bold laughter and easy smiles, all of which had been directed at her sister. Everyone but Katherine Tudor had seemed to notice the frequent disappearances of Henry and Mary throughout the evening; but if she had noticed, he only had to touch her hand, smile at her with a husbandly tenderness, and it seemed she would forget. Or perhaps she had simply not seen Mary as any threat, and she was the wiser for that.

_You can only play a man by his cock for as long as he thinks your thighs are gold _– that had been one of the first lines (of course it had been in French) on the show she had written for prior to its cancellation. When you ceased to be a prize of gold to him, you would be discarded – men liked to think they won things, or at least the men Anne brought to life in sprawling, historical romances she penned now and then. Men liked to think that, and Anne knew her sister simply did _not_ think; she was sweet, like a little girl, she liked to please someone as seemed best in the moment. It was only a matter of time…

She pulled her car up the marble driveway; there was already a car parked. She hesitated – the car boasted a glittery, flower bumper-sticker. It was a woman's, and it wasn't her sister's. What else would Henry be doing with a woman at his private house, unless she, too, was only there to drop off papers? How likely that seemed, though.

The front doors opened and Henry appeared, playing at the zipper of his pants while a pretty blonde made a mad sprint toward her car, at the same time trying to fix her mess of hair and hook her bra – she was probably married, too, and probably trying to get home fast and remark that she had not seen her husband's _Where are you? _text. It was no use though; you would have been able to tell what she had just been doing from a mile away. At any rate, she took the time to return Henry's provocative smile before driving away.

Anne stepped out of her car only when the woman had gone and the gates had closed. Henry was doing the buttons of a red silk dress-shirt when he looked up at her, disinterested; just some small-breasted office woman. _Shit, he looks good in red_. She bit her tongue_. He's cheating on your sister who he's cheating with on his wife_. She drew in a breath. _But his eyes, they're so blue_…

"Um –" And then she tripped on the last step up to his porch. It was his eyes. _Fuck, they're distracting_. She dropped her bag and the papers flew out, and with them, one of the books she had been carrying. Henry reached for the book while she dove for the papers.

When she had the papers in a neat stack, he offered her his hand; for a moment his fingertips grazed her skin and she was shocked by her body's treacherous response to that slightest touch. She bit her lip half-bloody and climbed to her feet, herself. "My dad –"

"_Sister Carrie_," he read the title of the book out loud, and he smiled at her. It was a friendly smile. "Good book. One of my favorite's by Dreiser."

"Maybe because it's one of the only famous novels he's done?" She had not meant for her words to come out as a retort. Or had she? How much courtesy did a dirty philanderer deserve?

He looked taken aback. "I'm not allowed to like it?"

"Of course you are. It's just ironic, that's it." She paused. "Anyway, my dad wanted me to –"

"Why is it ironic?"

"A rich man cheating on the mother of his daughter?" she suggested, against her own better judgment.

He looked ready to defend himself, but then he saw her father's name on the paper and paused. "Thomas Boleyn is your dad? No, I know Boleyn's daughter –"

"A man can have two daughters. He can have two of everything," she said simply, "except for wives."

Only when Anne reached her car did she turn around. She had seen the way Henry smiled at her sister, at the blonde woman, at his own wife – the way he looked at her, it was different from all of them. It was a look of utter wonder. Nevertheless, she drove away and she did not look back again.

* * *

Outside it was bright still, a pretty summer evening; but the condo was so dark Anne was shocked to turn on a light and find Mary. Her sister did not take any pains to hide that she was crying.

"Why are you home so late? I needed you. I needed you to comfort me."

"I had to make a stop for Dad," Anne said quickly. "Come here. What's wrong?"

"It's Henry. It's _Henry_. I saw him this morning, and he… he said the _worst_ thing, he… he and Dad have been talking about marrying me to some William Carey."

"A lawyer at Henry's firm. Wasn't he at the party?"

"Yes, but don't you understand? He doesn't want me anymore."

"Maybe he cares about you and is done taking advantage of you and wants you to be happy with a faithful man?" Anne suggested.

"He wasn't taking advantage of me," Mary insisted, defensively. "You think there's a woman on earth who would say 'no' to sex with him?"

"I don't know. Mary, I'm sorry."

Her sister shrugged sadly and took another sip from her mug, which Anne guessed contained the sort of hard liquor she herself couldn't handle. "Anyway, what did Dad have you do?"

"You forgot to give his report to Henry when you saw him this morning, so Dad had me drop it off, that's all."

"What report? I didn't forget any report." Mary paused. "Why did Dad have _you_ take it to him? Why did he have you go to Henry's house and give it to him? Anne?"

_Just… make sure you look… presentable..._ Her heart stopped when it hit her. "I don't know," she lied. "I don't know."


End file.
